


the quiet sighs back

by orphan_account



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Actor Louis, Alternate Universe - Non-Famous, Bars and Pubs, Bartender Niall, Diners, Domestic Fluff, First Kiss, Fluff, Holidays, Liam has a vague job that involves coaching kids, Liam's cameo has me sent, M/M, Mountains, Musician Harry, No Angst, No Smut, One Shot, Pining Harry, Seaside, Student Louis, Styles Family - Freeform, Summer Romance, Waiter Louis, Wales, alternative universe, as per, boomtown (mentioned), harry can't write songs until he can, he studies drama you get it, i'm trying to think of tags uh, it's very soft, kind of, louis smiles A Lot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-05
Updated: 2018-08-05
Packaged: 2019-06-22 12:14:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,585
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15581781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: "It’s quite embarrassing, he thinks, that the first person he spoke to since he’s been in Wales should have this much of an effect on him. More evidence of how little he gets out, he supposes, bitterly. But Louis certainly had an energy about him, something sharp and quick, that seemed electric even through a simple conversation about the diner’s menu."Harry needs the quiet to write music. Louis needs the quiet to survive. They meet in Wales.





	the quiet sighs back

**Author's Note:**

> Here is my procrastination for my summer work! I set myself the challenge to complete a fic before the end of summer because I literally never finish them and I actually managed to. It's kind of my baby, even though I can find a million faults with it, so please be kind.
> 
> Thank you so much to Amber who dealt with my messaging throughout and for beta-reading!
> 
> You can find me on twitter @dewydyke and on tumblr @earthshakeer if you want to say hi!  
> [rebloggable fic post here](http://earthshakeer.tumblr.com/post/176691084994/the-quiet-sighs-back-its-quite-embarrassing-he)
> 
> Please enjoy <3

When Harry first arrives, it’s golden.

The soft light filters through the trees as he steps out of his car, tired feet crunching in the gravel, and he can’t help but sigh. He lugs his suitcase out of the boot and slings his guitar case over a shoulder, idly rubbing his chin with the back of his hand.

A flurry of swallows chirp as they startle and swoop at the new arrival.

Harry sighs.

And the quiet sighs back.

* * *

 

In all honesty, it wasn’t a well thought out plan.

Harry had found himself a little lost and a little drunk on a Tuesday night, murmuring on the phone to Gemma about his stumbling music “career”, halfheartedly crooning tentative lyrics down the line which she received with earnest words and hums at the right moments.

“I just –“ He cuts himself off in the middle of a melody.

_“Just what?”_

“I don’t – I don’t know how to make it mean something. It feels like it’s missing something.”

 _“Everything means something, Haz,”_ Her voice is kind, and he smiles at how much she sounds like their mum. He could almost hear the furrow in between her brows, a common appearance in their conversations.

Harry huffs.

“Don’t try to make it that fucking deep,” Harry leans back in his armchair and absently peers out the window into the darkness. He can almost make out the flickering lights of the city in the distance and it makes something thrum beneath his chest. “I just want to make something nostalgic, I think. You know those albums? The ones that make you miss something that you’ve never had.”

 _“Alright Mr Don’t Get Deep With Me,”_ Gemma scoffs.

“Shut up, Gems,” He groans, and rubs his hand over his face. “You know what I mean.”

 _“Yeah,”_ She speaks carefully. _“I think I do.”_

Over the phone, their breathing gently lapses over each other’s. Harry watches the city like a lifeline, wondering if Gemma is also sitting in the dark like him. It was unlikely, he knew she was usually in bed with a book by ten, not prone to slipping out of time in the way he was. He pictured her now, cradling the phone to her ear and fumbling with the switch on her bedside lamp as they both sensed a lull in the conversation rearing its head. As he often does when they talk, he feels a sudden ache deep in his is bones and he is reminded of how much he misses the days when they could speak face to face.

Harry watches the city, and his chest thrums again as he thinks of her flat, thinks of its proximity to their family home.

_“I think you do, too.”_

Harry watches the lights slowly blink out as the people say goodnight.

“Yeah.”

He turns away from the window to regard the clock above the doorway, just making out the time in the amber of the streetlamps outside.

“I’ll go down tomorrow.”

* * *

 

Inside the Cottage, it’s not at all how Harry remembers.

But then again, the last time he was here he must have been at least two heads closer to the ground, so maybe if he walked across the tiles on his knees it would feel the same.

As it is, he is all of six feet and the hallway suddenly feels too small to hold both his limbs and his luggage. It’s barely six in the evening, but the long drive has everything in his body yearning for bed and even twisting to turn the light on feels like an effort.

Harry glances around at the familiar furniture; the dresser by the door, still holding winter hats that can’t have touched a head in years; the small table under the mirror with the slightly wonky legs. He remembers when he used to run into the hall like a hurricane, careening his limbs into everything in his path, still not completely in control of his own body.

He smiles, tosses the keys in the dish laid out for them and makes his way across the uneven floors.

It’s a shock when he has to duck slightly in the entrance to the kitchen, like the house is reminding him that he’s too old now to be playing grown-ups alone in the fridge light. He shifts his guitar off his shoulder, unceremoniously dumping it on the countertop before strolling back to the car to grab the bag of groceries he brought with him from home.

As he unpacks the food into the cupboards and the fridge, he skims over the contents and notes that he’ll only be well stocked for three days at most. He curses his poor planning under his breath and groans when he pulls the milk out of the bag, belatedly realising that it will have spoilt after four hours in the warm car.

Although he could really do with a cuppa after spending so long cramped behind the wheel, he resigns himself to making a small bowl of pasta that he nurses in front of the TV, vacantly watching reruns of a show he knows his mum likes.

By the time he pulls himself off the sofa, it’s gone ten, and he feels boneless as he rifles through his suitcase for an old shirt to sleep in. He brushes his teeth while watching himself in the mirror, wincing at the harsh bathroom light and the oppressive whir of the fan.

The guitar lies forgotten in the dark of the kitchen.

* * *

 

Penbryn Barn had been in the Styles’ family for as long as Harry could remember.

When he and Gemma were kids, they’d spend weeks at a time cooped up in the Welsh countryside with only each other for entertainment. Summers in Penbryn would sway between two extremes –sickly sweet warmth and harsh wet winds. Driving down to the sands of Pembrokeshire would have Gemma and Harry giggling in the backseats, taking childish bets of which side of the pendulum that summer would err on, both secretly praying for hot beach days that would bring them ice creams.

After time, their parent’s marriage would reflect the turbulent weather as it became its own pendulum. Des left with just a pair of keys for an empty house nestled away in the comfort of a Welsh hill in his wake.

Absent of the swell of family, Penryn _Barn_ became laughable – it was suddenly so clearly a cottage in both size and meekness without the roar they’d become accustomed to – and so it was dropped.

To the Styles, it was Penryn. Or more affectionately, The Cottage.

* * *

 

Even though he hasn’t been there in years, winding through the country roads to town is still second nature to Harry. It’s still early in the morning; Harry had only brought a box of Cheerios for breakfast and quickly deemed them to be inedible without milk.

Once again, on the short drive, he’s struck by the quiet of the country. Despite having his windows wound down in an attempt to dislodge the humidity already heavy in the air, the roads seem still with just a radio DJ mumbling through the static of the tinny speakers.

It’s hard for Harry not to smile when he gets into the more residential areas, with houses that look identical to the ones he ran squealing amongst lifetimes ago, down to the garden gnomes and the cheerful colours of front doors.

He stops in the small car park by the library and makes his way to the corner shop.

Inside, he drifts through the aisles, filling his basket with cartons of milk and fruit to replace those that bruised on the way down. Driven by the yawn he feels in the back of his throat, he also throws in an iced coffee and surprises himself when he has to suppress a laugh at the thought of Liam’s disappointed face at the glass bottle and Starbucks logo.

Exiting the shop, he notices The Eatery a little way up the street. Of all the novelties of the town, he finds himself most pleased that the diner remains the same. Merely the sight of the quaint lettering of the neon sign in the window is enough for Harry to suddenly remember the copious number of burgers he consumed there as a kid.

Despite the child inside him yearning to open the door and hear the friendly chime of the bell, he heads back towards his car, promising himself that he’d go back there at some point in his small excursion, if only for a chocolate milkshake.

On the journey back to the Cottage, Harry really allows himself to be soaked in the morning sun as it dapples through the trees. He winds the windows of his battered Ford Focus down and as the cool air whistles through his hair, his face sinks into a soft smile. He knows why he came here, now.

He knows why he came home.

The quiet of the country is just so different from the city, he thinks. Though he doesn’t really consider where he lives to be in Manchester, it’s barely fifteen minutes on the train, so he’s close enough to be tied up in the nonstop mindset and fast-paced lifestyle. When he really thinks about it, he hasn’t driven on a road without other cars on it in years. Maybe even since the last time he came to Penryn.

It’s coming up to eleven now, and the birdsong is still catching the wind, even this late in the day.

His smile deepens, and something warm settles under his ribs.

* * *

 

After sipping his coffee and settling down with a heaped bowl of Cheerios, he rummages through his suitcase to grab his notebook and snatches his guitar from where he left it the previous night.

He runs his hands over the strings begins to strum his way through a few familiar chord patterns, trying to see if anything sticks.

Just like with the last few months, he struggles with anything that doesn’t seem overly familiar – all of them sounding reminiscent of hits he must have heard hundreds of times on the radio. It’s like his brain is just on a loop of the Top Forty and that those are all that he can convince his hands to take the shape of.

He flops back onto the sofa and angrily plays out Go Your Own Way while shouting the muffled lyrics into a cushion.

* * *

 

The next day Harry decides that he will treat himself to that chocolate milkshake he’s been craving from The Eatery.

As he drives down into the little town, he can’t help but smile again. The ease of the fields seems to be waking up the child in him and he finds himself with the sudden urge to just stop the car in the middle of the road and run into the wheat to lay down and sleep.

Harry reckons that he deserves the milkshake he’s been hunting out as conciliation for the practically traumatic experience of trying to write yesterday. He’s at a loss as to why he can’t seem to just buckle down and write something, doesn’t understand why every lyric and every riff he notes down seem jolted and stubborn. It’s not even like he’s had any sort of big event in his life recently that could have thrown him off – in fact, the only time he’s felt remotely like this was about a year ago when Nick broke up with him, but even then he had managed to get back on his feet fast enough to write a cracking break up song which he played at an open mic he knew Nick would be scouting at just to piss him off. It had gone down a hit, and even managed to bag him a fit boy to go home with as a good and proper fuck you.

And, Harry considers, as he parks his car, it’s not like he could pin point any sort of trigger for his sudden song writing celibacy anyway. It seems to have been slipping out from under his fingers for quite a while, a sort of slow release, instead of a big dramatic moment where he woke up and couldn’t even play an e minor chord on his guitar.

So perhaps he shouldn’t expect his missing music ability to rush back all at once like some magic tidal wave. Maybe he should just fuck about in Newbridge for as long as it takes for the Welsh gods to take pity on him and breathe some magic back into his fretboard.

Harry pushes the door of The Eatery open and is somewhat charmed by the little bell that chimes his arrival, as small part of him getting giddy at being back in a restaurant which was such a classic spot in his childhood.

The server currently has his back to him, so Harry chances a quick look around and finds himself infinitely pleased by the red diner-style booths and checked black and white floor. Both seem to be the same ones he remembers from his countless meals he weaselled out of his parents, albeit a bit cracked and worse for wear. Luckily, he thinks, this kind of place almost benefits from it. It being a 50s style American diner in the middle of rural Wales means that entering it already feels a little like stepping into a time machine, and the chips in its décor simply adds to the character.

Startling him, the server swivels around so that he’s facing Harry, and suddenly the rustic booths don’t appear to be the only thing in the diner that Harry feels charmed by.

He’s shorter than Harry by almost a head and his hair is swooped gently across his forehead into a fringe. Despite the poor lighting in the diner, Harry can see that he has pretty blue eyes and a face that he would describe as chiselled if he was the type to pathetically fall in love with strangers he just met. Which he isn’t. So, no worries.

The server coughs a little when Harry leaves a too long a gap before saying anything and Harry feels himself flush, frantically hoping that it’s not too obvious or that at the very least he would be able to pass it off as a side effect from the slowly rising muggy heat outside.

“Table for one, then?” The stranger asks, eyes amused. Harry finds his lack of a Welsh accent slightly upsetting, he was hoping to hear the comfort of a mellow voice, but the server’s northern lilt reminds him of home and he can’t find it in himself to be disappointed.

“Uh— yeah, that’d be fine thanks. Just me today,”

At that, the server smiles at him and grabs a menu from a holder by the front of the restaurant, before turning and leading Harry over to a bar by the window facing out into the high street. As his back is turned, Harry winces at his words.

 _Just me today._ Christ.

“Are you okay with sitting up by the window?”

“Yeah, of course,” Harry says, as he settles into the bar stool. As he glances up at the server he catches a glimpse of his name tag. _Louis._ God, Louis was pretty. “That’s great with me”

“Wonderful,” Louis smiles, his eyes crinkling up sweetly, causing Harry to have a heart attack then and there. “I’ll be back around in a few minutes to collect your order.”

Louis then swerves off through the maze of bar stools and booths, presumably to go and be the perfect server for another lucky soul.

Shaking himself, Harry picks up the laminated menu that Louis had handed him and skims over it in search of his much yearned for chocolate milkshake. He quickly finds what he was after and swallows his horror at the little _£4_ next to it, telling himself he’s only in for a drink and not a meal, so it’s justifiable.

However, when he realises what covers the rest of the menu, it becomes apparent that it was futile to swallow his horror in the first place.

Instead of the standard burgers, waffles and hot dogs that are sold by your typical American diner, the menu was full of pizza.

Pizza.

Harry’s face pulled taut in confusion, he turns the menu over and found more… pizza.

He double checks the name on the top of the menu to see if he’s in the right place, and that relying on his impeccable memory instead of a sat nav to get here wasn’t a stupid idea, but there on the top it is. _The Eatery,_ in the easily recognisable red font.

“Are you ready for me to take your order?”

Harry startles for the second time that day and put the menu down on the bar in front of him, smoothing his hands over it as he turns to face Louis.

He gives his order of a chocolate milkshake, smiling when Louis compliments him on his choice as he writes it down in the pad of paper he pulls out of the front pocket of the apron he wears.

“And can I get any food for you?”

“Yeah, about the food,” Louis raises an eyebrow at this, clearly not expecting this kind of backtalk from Harry, but he can’t help but ask. A diner serving pizza just… seems against the rules of nature. Or something.

“Against the rules of nature?” Louis pulls on his bottom lip with his teeth, and Harry hopes that it’s too stop endeared laughter and not, like, in disgust at Harry’s inability to have a civil conversation without sharing at least a small portion of the weird shit that he thinks up (a talent that Gemma and Liam have both on multiple occasions pointed out), “Who’s writing these laws of nature then? Seems a bit shit that they’d rule pizza out from being sold anywhere, to be quite honest.”

“I don’t know who writes them, I just abide by them. I used to come here all the time as a kid, where has all the normal diner food gone?”

“Well, it was serving pizza when I got here, so,” Louis shrugs, flicking his head a little as he does so get some stray hair out of his eyes. “Did you want any pizza, or is it too much of an abomination for you?”

Harry narrows his eyes in mock suspicion as he senses Louis making fun of him and hands the menu back into his waiting hands.

“Just the milkshake is good for now, thanks.”

Louis takes the menu and winds his back into the diner with a wink goodbye.

For a few minutes Harry watches the bustle of the town, absently wondering if it would be too weird to make a run for it even though he’s already placed his order, sharply embarrassed by his outburst over the new pizza menu. He’s certain that the pizza is delicious, and there were enough options on the menu for there to be one that he would enjoy. Hell, he even caught a glimpse of a Hawaiian option, which he doesn’t even want to think about right now.

So yeah, the pizza is probably lovely, but he just can’t help but feel a little bit tricked by how the diner has tricked him into thinking it was still identical to the timeless relic that he came to for almost every meal out in the summer months of his childhood.

“Here you go, one chocolate milkshake.” Louis once again appears from behind Harry to reach around a place the sundae style glass on the counter. They make eye contact as they smile at each other, and Harry can’t help but wonder if Louis is holding it for too long on purpose, if he has some sort of mission to make Harry blush embarrassingly again as his eyes flick down his body for a hot second.

When he is alone and blushing all the way from his hairline to his chest, he is pleased to see that the milkshake looks and tastes identical to the hundreds of others he has slurped down at The Eatery over the years.

He glances to the heavens for a heavy, embarrassed moment, and sighs before drinking the milkshake he had been craving since making his way back to Wales.

* * *

 

That evening, Harry carries his guitar and notebook out into the sweet warm of the evening and lays down in the wild grass, staring up at the tumbling clouds as the heavy summer breeze tangles through the grass and through his hair.

His breathing feels heavy in the still, and as he picks away at his guitar he closes his eyes and thinks of Louis, and the angle of his jaw, and the soft wave of his hair, and the melody of his voice. Something northern, he’s sure, as he’d thought back at the diner, but not so northern as Newcastle or anywhere near Manchester. Maybe somewhere in Yorkshire, though.

It’s quite embarrassing, he thinks, that the first person he spoke to since he’s been in Wales should have this much of an effect on him. More evidence of how little he gets out, he supposes, bitterly. But Louis certainly had an energy about him, something sharp and quick, that seemed electric even through a simple conversation about the diner’s menu.

Harry blinks up at the reddening sky and catches something inside himself calming at how the lulling tune he’s plucking out catches the wind and seems to float up towards the mountain that sits barely three miles from Penryn’s slumbering spot in the valley. He feels his face split wide with a tired smile as his fingers glide easily over the fretboard.

As quickly as he began, he startles suddenly to a halt, and bolts upright in the grass, his guitar tumbling onto his thighs as he pats the ground around him for his notebook and pencil.

Smile never slipping, he flips to a blank page and quickly hashes out the tab of the new melody.

Once it’s out on the paper, he falls heavily back onto the grass and sends a thank you out to Louis’ voice.

* * *

 

By the time the next evening rolls around, Harry’s got a couple pages of new riffs plucked out, and when he wanders down to the pub in town, he does so with a spring in his step he reckons he hasn’t walked with since the last time he was in Wales.

Newbridge only has one pub, but in all fairness the town is small and close knit so there’s never been a need for another.

It’s much closer to the harbour than the diner and shops that Harry has been frequenting the past couple days, so he has a fifteen-minute walk down to the seafront where the salty breeze whips his hair into his eyes. He’s suddenly thankful that he thought to slip a hairband on his wrist just before he headed out.

Normally, Harry ponders, he would not be seen dead alone in a pub – especially not in a town like Newbridge where the residents greet each other on the street with friendly waves and seem to half live in each other’s pockets – but having spent the last twenty-four hours holed up inside the Cottage (however cosy it may be), he’s in dire need of human interaction.

Besides, he’s going to a pub, so it’s not like there won’t be alcohol on hand to drown out the embarrassment if it does come to it. Loneliness aside, he suspects that as the only place still open at half nine on a Saturday night, it’s fairly likely that Louis from The Eatery yesterday will be there, and he’ll need to drink to forget his mortification at their interaction the previous day.

As he winds round a twist in the road, Harry comes to the pub. It’s got a little beer garden out front, complete with a jumble of mismatched picnic tables for people to eat in the warm air. Really, it should look clumsy, but the clusters of families that spread over the groups of tables give it a homely feel. It feels like looking into a window into a past, with the way that the children seem to be branching out and making friends with the other kids, brothers and sisters blurring together.

Something deep within Harry misses the way he could visit Newbridge with only Gemma for company and come away with a bunch of friends that he’d spent days exploring with, after badgering their parents to group up on days out. Of course, being a kid he never got any way to contact them after the summer drew to a close, but he made enough pacts each holiday that the friendships must last forever, he thinks solemnly.

Harry weaves through the children running about in the garden to get to the entrance of the pub, and ducks when the doorframe hangs a little low on the way in.

Inside the lights are a warm amber, and the comfort of it suits the bustle of friendly chatter that pours out when Harry tugs the door open. Much like the jungle of children outside, the townsfolk are like a humming hive, tables bleeding seamlessly into each other.

Harry spies the bar across the way, and meanders over, once again being wary of the mass of tipsy patrons and the uneven floorboards.

The bar itself is decorated with a number of postcards and coasters that appear to be collated from the nearby towns. It’s sweet, Harry thinks, the way that even though to him Newbridge is like a secret haven, the people living there help other small towns out in a network of sorts; of brochures and word of mouth.

As he inspects the array of faded postcards, he clocks the bartender serving someone on the other side of the pub. He’s confused for all of three seconds as to why he has frosted tips when it’s not the nineties anymore, before he realises that he must be just growing the colour out.

“What can I get for you, mate?”

On hearing the nineties bartender’s distinctly _Irish_ voice, Harry wonders if anyone in this decidedly Welsh town is in fact Welsh.

“Pint of whatever you have on tap’s fine, thanks”

“Stella alright?”

Harry digs around in his back pocket for his wallet as he gives the affirmative. The bartender passes the glass over the bar before reaching for a biro that’s resting behind his ear.

“Do you want to start a tab, or do you want to pay upfront?”

“I’ll just pay – "

“Nialler!” A familiar voice barks over the hum of the crowd.

As Harry turns to regard the newcomer, a hand flies up to his hair, subconsciously tucking a few flyaways from his bun behind his ears before he catches himself and turns sharply, blushing. Of course the guy he’s barely met would turn him into a giddy schoolgirl.

The bartender – Nialler, Harry’s mind supplies helpfully – focuses his attention away from Harry momentarily, rolling his eyes at Louis as he jumps up on a bar stool to the left of him. From this angle, Harry finds he can discreetly glance at him, and the soft way he’s dressed with a threadbare jumper that has to be at least a size too big for him, warms his cheeks further.

“Lou, I’m in the middle of serving a customer,” he scolds, gesturing at Harry with his pen, “you can’t just barge in and interrupt all willy-nilly!”

At this, Louis turns to look at Harry and he smiles when they exchange eye contact, his brow quirking in recognition. He never stops watching him, Harry notices, as he pays for his beer outright rather than opting for a tab. As he takes his first sip of his drink, he meets Louis’ eyes again, whose smile deepens as he raises his hand in greeting and rests his head in his other one – his elbow propped up on the bar.

“Hello again.”

Before Harry opens his mouth, the bartender suddenly reappears behind the bar, glancing between them with suspicion.

“You know each other?”

Louis sighs and swivels on his stool towards him.

“Clearly not, Niall,” he deadpans, “I just say hello to everyone I see.”

Niall stares at him blankly.

“ _Obviously_ I do!” This time it’s Louis’ turn to roll his eyes. “He came into the diner the other day, didn’t you…?” He trails off tilting his head towards Harry, who hastily swallows his mouthful of beer.

“Harry.” He provides, rubbing at his top lip which feels wet from his clumsy drinking.

“Harry.” Louis repeats, staring again, though he seems a little strained this time as his eyes dart all over Harry’s face like he’s not sure where to look.

He must catch Harry’s furrowed brow, because he’s abruptly turning back to Niall with a slight cough. Niall, who is suddenly smirking at Louis with raised eyebrows. Although Harry is curious about the nonverbal conversation that appears to be taking place right in front of him, it’s comforting, suddenly being in the presence of two people so clearly in tune with one another. He makes the decision to call Liam as soon as he gets back to the Cottage.

“He seemed to have a bit of a problem with the menu though.”

Though the comment is addressed to Niall, Louis is once again shooting Harry glances from under his soft fringe.

“Finally!” Niall leans towards them across the bar to smile at Harry as he tosses the cloth he was using to polish a glass with over his shoulder. “I’ve been telling this one – “, he gestures towards Louis who sighs dramatically, eyes amused. They must have had conversation before, Harry thinks to himself. “- that their menu doesn’t make any _fucking_ sense for weeks now! What kind of American diner doesn’t sell bloody breakfast?!”

“Well, technically it’s a Welsh diner…” Harry points out, trailing off and shrugging sheepishly when he sees Niall glaring at him.

“I thought you were the good sort, Harry” he says, throwing the cloth down with a flourish and a huff.

“Technically, we’ve only had this one conversation, so I can hardly see how you can make that judgement straight off the bat.”

Niall just squints at him and tilts his head, considering. Harry is suddenly struck with the urge to laugh at how doglike he looks like this and has to put his knuckles to his mouth and lean on his hand to suppress his grin.

After a few seconds he’s gesturing broadly, waving his hand at Harry’s general vicinity.

“You just have that… air about you. And you’re already in my good books for acknowledging the disaster going on at The Eatery. Louis’ been working there since the end of term and he still won’t see the truth even though it’s right in front of his nose,” Niall leans towards Harry and adopts a pitying tone, “I love the boy, but it’s hard sometimes, you know. Being friends with someone so delusional.”

“I resent that!”

Niall tilts his back at them as he stalks off to the other end of the bar to serve a waiting customer.

“Of course _you_ resent it, you’re the delusional one!”

Louis turns back to Harry. “As you can see, Niall is also very upset by the pizza,”

“Well, as you _can’t_ seem to see, pizza doesn’t belong in a diner.”

Louis smiles and stares at Harry. Again. Harry was beginning to think that Louis had a lazy eye or something. That, or he was one of those people who are perfectly happy to do weird shit and not explain why they’re doing the weird shit. Now that he thinks about it, despite his sweet appearance, Louis does have a kind of challenging energy that makes Harry suspect people don’t fuck with him.

Harry coughs into his hand again, praying for what feels like the hundredth time that the warmth flooding to his face isn’t actually visible.

“So… you only work at the diner in the summer, then?”

“Hmm?” Louis asks distractedly, flicking his gaze up to Harry’s. Huh.

“Niall said you’ve been working there since the end of term?”

“Oh! Yeah, it’s really a just job to keep occupied when I’m away from uni,” Louis shrugs. “I like to stay in Wales, just cos it’s a trek to lug all my stuff up and down to Yorkshire between terms.”

Harry congratulates himself on his excellent accent spotting.

“Oh? Where abouts in Yorkshire are you from?”

“Doncaster. You?”

“Oh no – “Harry chuckles. “I’m not from Yorkshire. I’m a Cheshire lad myself. From near Manchester?”

“Huh.” Louis frowns. “I’ve been in Wales too long. Northern accents all sound like home to me now.”

“You at Cardiff?”

“Ah, no. I’m actually at Aberystwyth. Drama and theatre studies. Not much of a fan of cities, really. I like the peace.”

Harry hums in consideration.

“Well, you’ve certainly found it here.”

Just as he says it, a surge in the buzz of the crowd behind them culminates in a rowdy cry. They meet each other’s gazes and laugh privately at the irony. Then, quick as a flash, Louis is swiping Harry’s glass out from under his nose and taking a hefty sip.

“Hey –“

“What about you then, Harold? What brings you to Newbridge? Having a bit of soul searching before uni kicks off again or what?”

Harry raises his eyebrows at Louis’ easy nature. He wonders now if Niall and Louis’ NiallandLouis-ness is more of an example of Louis’ tactility rather than a soulmate situation.

“First of all, my names not Harold – “

“What’s it short for then? Harriet?”

“It’s not – “ “Henry? Harrison?”

“It’s not short for anything!”

“Well that’s boring. Continue.”

“As I was saying, I’m not at uni. I’m actually, um,” he scratches the back of his neck, suddenly embarrassed. “I’m a musician. I’m sort of on a bit of a sabbatical right now, I guess. Trying to find some inspiration and all that.” When he says inspiration, he flaps his hand about in a vague gesturing way that he belatedly suspects looked like he was trying to get rid of a bad smell.

“A sabbatical, hmm?” Louis puts the back of his hand to his forehead, reminding Harry of a distressed princess in a Disney movie. “Such is the way of the artist!” He exclaims with fervour.

“I can tell you study drama” Harry says wryly.

“Oi!” Louis sniffs, pushing Harry’s glass back to him across the bar. “I’m a very serious actor, you know.”

“I’m sure.”

Harry takes his beer back from where it’s been pushed and finishes off the last dregs Louis’ left.

“Are you busy tomorrow?”

Harry startles at the sudden question.

“No?”

Louis smiles at him.

“You sure?”

“Yes. I’m sure. I’m free. Why?” Harry flushes.

Louis ducks his head and reaches out to pick at some wood splintering on the bar by his knee.

“I was gonna climb the mountain? Carningli, you can see it from the town. Pretty good place to find inspiration, I reckon.” Louis looks up and scowls good naturedly at the back of Niall’s head. “Was gonna go with Nialler, you see, but he decided to pick up an extra shift without telling me.” He proceeds to chuck the little bit of wood at Niall’s head, who remains oblivious to the tiny missile and continues animatedly chatting with a customer.

Harry blinks at Louis incredulously, who seems to take his disbelief the wrong way.

“I mean, obviously, you don’t have to come. We’ve only just met, I could be planning to leave you in a body bag up on the mountain. It’s just, I do really love it up there and I was gonna climb it anyway but it’s much less lonely when you have someone to talk to. Like, don’t feel obligated or anything but –“

“Mate, slow down!” Harry laughs. “Of course I’ll go with you. I wanted to go anyway and it’ll be better with a local to show me the way so I don’t fall to my death.” He wiggles his eyebrows. “I’m very clumsy.”

“Well, I’m not exactly a local, but…” He grins shyly at Harry from underneath his fringe. “Where are you staying? I could pick you up in the afternoon.”

Harry rattles off the address of Penryn and Louis jots it down in his phone.

They share a few more rounds after Louis finally buys himself a drink, mostly making small talk about their respective childhoods back in the North. Harry suspects that Louis’ familiarity with him has a lot to do with his voice being distinctly not Welsh, and the way his mouth curls over words in the way that Louis himself described as sounding like “home”, when he was stone cold sober. Harry has to steadfastly remind himself throughout the evening that this is only the second time he has spoken to Louis, and that while his drunken mind likes to ramble on at him about soulmates, fate and destiny, that being cute and northern in a place where everyone talks like they’re straight out of _Gavin and Stacey_ is not criteria enough for a husband.

Unfortunately.

* * *

 

_“Why do you sound so suspicious?”_

Harry had thought that it would be a great idea to catch up with Liam before he goes up on the mountain with Louis to calm any worries that Liam may have had about Harry falling off the face of the Earth. Sadly, Harry as well as forgetting to mention to his best mate where the fuck he had suddenly disappeared off to ( _“Wales?! Why the fuck are you in Wales, mate?”_ ), he also forgot how well Liam was able to pick up on his mannerisms, even through the phone.

“What do you mean? I don’t sound suspicious!” Harry scowls down at his notebook, where he’s doodling while he presses the phone to his ear. He adds a pair of devil horns to the crude depiction of Liam’s face.

 _“Yes you do,”_ Liam says flatly. _“I’m glad you’re writing again, don’t get me wrong, but usually you give me some huge pretentious – “_

“Hey!”

_“It’s true! Don’t lie! You give me some pretentious speech about every little thing that inspired every little lyric and chord or what the fuck ever, and I pretend to know what you’re talking about even though we both know I know fuck all about music -”_

“You make remixes!”

_“I made a whopping great two soundcloud remixes three years ago to impress a girl I met at Boomtown.”_

“Well clearly that’s more than knowing nothing.”

_“Oh my god. Please stop interrupting me. Let’s just agree that I know nothing about music and the only thing you want to hear about from my job is when I coach kids and I don’t even get paid for that.”_

“It’s sweet!”

 _“I know it is.”_ Harry can hear his grin through the phone. _“But the point is, you’ve not told me what inspired this ‘lifechanging melody, honestly Liam, it sounds just like a Welsh summer, I swear’.”_

“I do not sound like that.”

_“Yes you do. What does a Welsh summer even sound like anyway?”_

“What? Does that mystery not satisfy your need for pretentious explanations?”

_“No.”_

Harry adds a little pitchfork and some hellfire to his Liam caricature for good measure.

 _“Have you…”_ Now it’s Harry’s turn to be suspicious.

“Have I what, Liam?” Harry asks, tone warning.

_“Have you… met someone?”_

“I’ve been here for five days.” Harry says blankly.

 _“A lot can happen in five days!”_ He can picture Liam raising his hands defensively.

“Well. I haven’t, so.”

_“Hmmm.”_

“Look – I need to go I’ve got plans –“

_“Plans?”_

“Liam – “

_“You need to have met someone to have plans with them, mate.”_

“I’m going to hang up now.”

 _“Okay,”_ Liam’s voice is amused. _“Love you, H.”_

Harry pulls his phone away from his ear and scowls down at it.

“Love you too.” He presses the little red phone on the screen.

Pocketing his phone, he runs his hand through his hair and tugs at the ends where it rests, unruly on his shoulders.

Louis doesn’t count as meeting someone, does it? Harry can’t deny how magnetic Louis’ presence was when they spoke last night. His eyes got so bright when he spoke about his family that it made Harry feel like a moth flapping clumsily in their orbits and the way he told a story conducted a room and drew a few curious ears throughout the evening. In spite of Louis’ adamance that he wasn’t a local, everyone who listened into the way his words rose and fell interjected like they were old friends, eyes fond.

So maybe it doesn’t count.

Maybe Louis is just electric. Maybe this the effect he has on everyone.

It doesn’t have to mean anything.

Liam can fuck off. He hasn’t _met_ someone.

* * *

 

Louis pulls up in front of the driveway around half three in a battered Fiesta.

“Cute place.” Harry is not sure whether to be pleased or worried about the fact that Louis looks just as pretty in the daylight in front of his family holiday home as he did in the whir in the pub or the charm of the diner.

Harry grins widely as Louis opens the passenger side door for him before walking round to the driver’s seat.

Before starting the car, he gives Harry a quick once over and then decides to give him a heart attack by leaning over the console and looking down at his feet. He stays like this for a second and Harry has to stare up at the heavens to restrain himself from doing something stupid like burying his nose in his hair and inhaling.

Abruptly, Louis pulls back, turns on the ignition and begins to pull away.

“Just checking you have sensible footwear on mate. Was beginning to wonder whether you owned anything other than those little boots you were wearing last night.”

Oh. Harry chances a glance down at his walking boots. He hopes Louis doesn’t think he’s stupid. Obviously he brought walking boots down with him; the Cottage is surrounded by fields. Welsh summers can be wet, and he didn’t fancy losing his favourite pair of loafers in boggy pasture.

“You might want to tie your hair up though.” Harry frowns. “Not that it doesn’t look good! It looks very…” Louis coughs and looks steadfastly at the road ahead. “…regal.”

Right. Okay then.

Harry doesn’t particularly know what to say to that and after a quick check he realises he forgot to slip a hair tie onto his wrist, so he reaches across to play with the dial on the radio. It’s barely a five minute drive, he knows, but the silence in the car with Louis makes him feel vulnerable, so he fiddles until the static works to blurt out a barely discernible rendition of The Beach Boys.

Louis chuckles, and Harry turns to him in question.

“Musician.” Louis replies, as if it qualifies as an answer. And as Harry smiles to himself and turns bashfully to peer out the window, he supposes it does.

When Louis stops the car, he swivels in his seat to look at Harry. He raises his hand gingerly between them, as if he’s about to tuck Harry’s hair behind his ears but then drops it like something hot. Suddenly, he’s thrusting his dainty fist towards Harry, who realises he’s clutching a scrunchie between his fingers like a peace offering.

Harry takes it and stretches it over his wrist before pulling his hair up into a messy bun.

“I like it more when it’s down, just so you know. But it’s windy out today, and I don’t want you to trip because it blows into your eyes or something.”

“Did you used to have long hair?”

Louis laughs, and his eyes crinkle up into crescent moons.

“No, no. I have lots of little sisters, so I had some lying around from when they visited. Thought I’d bring a couple along since you might actually be able to make use of them.”

_I like it more when it’s down._

This is only the third time Harry has seen Louis, as he reminds himself again, but Harry knows with every ounce of his body that he is the sweetest man he has ever met. Louis, with little sisters that visit and his unapologetic kindness and thoughtful scrunchie providing.

“Thank you,” Harry says softly.

Louis smiles.

* * *

 

Louis was right about the mountain being windy.

There isn’t exactly an easy path, but the way Louis takes them has enough places to put their feet, even if it does have them almost vertical at some points, clinging to rocks jutting out above them. They don’t talk much as they make their way up, the wind roaring like a voyeur to the little conversation they do make. Harry idly wonders what Louis meant when it would be less lonely with someone to talk to because all he feels like is an extra body for Louis to worry about stumbling.

Despite his concerns, they make it up the mountain in just under an hour. As Harry catches his breath, he reaches to the back of his head to take his hair down. They’ve settled in a nook caved out of the mountain top, surrounded by jagged rocks, which creates a little cubbyhole which for most part is sheltered from the wind.

Harry peers out across the hills that lightly curve up and down off into the distance.

From here, Newbridge looks like matchstick town only a heavy wave away from getting pulled into the ocean. He can just make out Penryn and it’s sort of overwhelming how small it is, for somewhere so concrete in his childhood.

He’s always had Penryn; however old he was. He had Penryn when his parent’s split and they both walked away from their family home. He had Penryn when he and Gemma moved out of their Mum’s place.

Penryn’s been the one constant.

But seeing it like this – so small, so fragile, - he knows deep down that it isn’t the cottage itself that brings him the comfort.

It’s the town. It’s the people. Harry’s always envied the way the everyone here moves around each other so seamlessly, like they’re one family. It doesn’t matter that the diner isn’t still a carbon copy of the one in his family photo album, it’s the way the seats are cracked from the memories. Even Louis and Niall, both clearly just here for work, treating their jobs like a halfway house, have been adopted by the town itself. For a town with air so still, the energy of its inhabitants is so tangible.

Penryn Barn is a cottage that called itself a barn, and it is so, so small.

But Louis.

Louis is larger than life.

He’s settled himself on the grass beside Harry, watching him with a curious look on his face. With the way the grass is weaving itself through his hair, Harry half wonders whether the mountain itself is just another instrument of the town, claiming Louis as one of its own.

Harry desperately sends a plea to anyone that may be listening to have mercy on him. Because he is just so soft. He’s so delicate and gentle like this, smiling sweetly at him from where he lays. Harry is certain that his dainty features and hypnotic mannerisms is the most lethal combination he has ever come across.

“What are you thinking?” Louis’ voice is a murmur that almost gets lost in the breeze.

Harry focuses his gaze back on the town. “It’s so small.” He speaks quietly. He’s almost afraid of breaking the quiet that’s settled around them. “I forget how small it is.”

Louis sits up, body close to Harry. He can hear his soft breathing close to his ears as Louis appears to be trying to match up their eyeline. They sit like that for a moment and Harry swears he can feel static zinging in the air between them like the rub of a plastic slide in summer.

They sit like that until Harry can barely remember what he said.

“I’m surprised.” Harry turns away from the view, confused. “You’re like ninety percent limb. Surely everywhere seems too small for you.”

Harry gives him a dirty look and a shove to the shoulder, which has him tumbling back into the grass with a yelp of shocked laughter, splitting the still around them.

* * *

 

Harry spends the next day tucked away in Penryn with his notebook and a biro.

After he got back from the mountain yesterday, he was giddy with excitement from his revelation. His mind was swimming with words and when he put pen to paper, he wrote feverishly.

He wrote about his childhood in Penryn, how everything twisted and changed outside of the oasis of the small town. He wrote about fragility of the buildings; the diner, the pub, the corner shop, the post office, the church. He wrote about them all getting pulled underwater, tugged into some cold Atlantis in the Irish Sea.

He wrote about townsfolk. He wrote about their warmth, their welcoming arms, the way they move around each other like bees in a hive.

He wrote about Louis. About his hands and his voice and his words. About the scrunchie and his half-moon eyes and sharp laughter. His quick wit and magnetism.

Harry writes and writes and writes until the sun sinks underneath the hills and his hand cramps up.

And then he flicks on his bedside lamp and fits his words to the music he had been raving to Liam about.

He falls asleep with his notebook splayed open on his chest.

Maybe Liam was right.

* * *

 

“Your total comes to twelve fifty-seven.”

Harry thanks the cashier and hands her the money as he begins to pile his groceries into the hessian bag he brought from home. Liam always liked to tell him he looked like a mum when he used it, but he always shut up when Harry pointedly asked him to remind him of how long plastic bags took to degrade.

“Um – sir?”

Harry looks up to see the cashier looking slightly embarrassed.

“Sorry, but you’re 10p short of your total.” She looks like she’s bracing herself for an outburst. It seems that not even idyllic Newbridge is a stranger to dickhead customers, Harry thinks wryly.

“Oh, sorry –“ Harry had begun to dig around in his wallet when he’s interrupted by someone sidling up next to him.

“No worries, here you go.” Louis pulls a pound out of nowhere and puts it in the girls outstretched palm before resting his hand on the small of Harry’s back and guiding him out of the shop.

Once they’re outside, Harry turns to Louis in bewilderment.

“What was that all about?” Louis doesn’t answer for a second, just continues to guide Harry down the cobbled street, hand still warm through his t-shirt. It sends zips of electricity up his spine, and he finds himself focusing all his attention on not tripping over the uneven pavement. It doesn’t help that his hand barely covers half of Harry’s back; an acute reminder of their difference in size.

Finally, Louis answers him.

“Well it was just coincidence that I bumped into you there.”

They turn a corner into a side street. “I realised last night I didn’t even get your number. I was gonna drive to your place after my shift, but I spotted you and thought I may as well collect you.”

_Collect him?_

“I need to get this into a fridge.” Harry raises his bag sheepishly, blushing. Something deep in him stirred at the thought of being collected by Louis, but he was also concerned about the state the yoghurt he bought would be in if he lugged the shopping along with them into wherever they were going in the shy Welsh heat.

Louis grins at him, eyes amused.

“I’m leading you to my flat first, don’t worry. You can leave it there.”

Harry’s cheek pinkened further as his mind kicked into overdrive at the notion of Louis’ flat. Would he have bookshelves lining the walls? Would Harry be able to guess his favourites from running his hands over the novels nestled there, eyes drawn to those dog eared with cracked spines. Would it be neat and tidy, everything with a proper place, or would it be a mess, with clothes spread all over the place and mugs left out on the side.

“Where are we going, anyway?”

“I just told you Harold.” Harry levels him with a flat look. “I thought you might fancy a splash down on the beach.” He chuckles. “Figured the ocean is plenty awe inspiring for you to wax wonders about them in some love song.”

“Well I’m not in love with a fish, am I?”

“Don’t look at me like that! You could be!” Louis sucks his cheeks in, makes a silly kissy noise and bugs his eyes out. “See! Fish can be very attractive.”

“Right.” It’s a bit of non-answer but telling Louis that he does indeed still look impossibly attractive while also resembling an extra out of Finding Nemo would probably cause his ego to explode, and Harry’s not sure he could survive a beach trip with someone like Louis if he was also cocky on top of everything else.

* * *

 

Louis’ flat turns out to be Louis and Niall’s flat. It’s the top floor of an old library, made up of grey cobbled stones just like everything else in the town. As Harry tries to find places in amongst the items already in the stocked fridge for his own food, he sneaks a little glance around the open plan kitchen and living room.

“I didn’t know you played guitar?”

He directs to Louis, who’s perched on the arm of a sofa twiddling his thumbs.

“I don’t, it’s Niall’s.” He clarifies. “We live together at uni, but we didn’t get a twelve-month lease, so. Our mate Zayn rooms with us too, but he stays with his girlfriend during the holidays.”

Harry closes the fridge door and faces Louis, eyes furrowed.

“Why’d you hunt me out for the beach then?” He asks, confused. “Surely you could’ve just gone with Niall?”

“He’s at work. Besides, I enjoy your company. I wanted to spend more time with you.” He hops up from the sofa. “Is that okay? Sorry, everyone tells me I’m too forward.” He blushes prettily and ducks his head. Harry finds it hopelessly endearing and tries to quell the dizzy butterflies that seem to have woken up in his belly.

“Of course it’s okay.” And then, as an afterthought, driven by Louis’ own forwardness – “I like spending time with you too. You’re a very interesting person.”

Louis’ responding grin lights up the room.

“Brilliant. You can borrow Niall’s flip flops.”

The sun is warm on their backs as they stroll down to the beach and Harry finds himself glad that he opted for shorts. Both start to giggle at the ridiculous _slap slap slap_ sound of their flip flops against the hot pavement as they start to head off. But apart from that, neither of them particularly feels the need to talk much, triggering Harry to the revelation that Louis may be the only person apart from Liam and Gemma who he feels comfortable to be quiet with.

Newbridge bay isn’t at all a touristy beach, despite the long stretch of sand that winds golden across the seafront. There’s a couple dog walking at the opposite end of where they arrive, just past the sand dunes. But besides that, they have the beach for themselves.

As soon as they set foot on the sand, Louis adopts a mischievous grin and Harry thinks if he hasn’t got to play Puck in A Midsummer Night’s Dream so far in his degree, then it’s all been a waste. He’s about to tell Louis as much, when his hand slaps down on his shoulder before he takes off in a sprint cackling wildly.

“You’re it!” He yells over his shoulder.

Harry shakes his head in disbelief.

“I can’t run in flip flops!”

“Then take them off!” Louis waves his own pair above his head, eyes glinting madly.

Harry does and bounds towards Louis, determined. Louis turns around when he hears Harry’s footsteps in the sand and starts laughing so hard he has to clutch his stomach and bend over.

“You look so –“ He pauses to wipe a tear from his eye. “You look so dumb when you run, oh my _god_.”

Harry sees this as a golden opportunity and ducks down to jab at the back of his knee, successfully chicken legging him.

“It!”

Louis tumbles forward into the sand, squawking.

“You bastard!”

Harry faces him as his runs backwards towards the sea, noting that he’s not had the same foresight as Harry, despite being the one to propose their trip. He’s decked out in black jeans, in spite of the unusual heat, so Harry turns towards the sea and runs into it until he’s wading through water crashing against his knees.

He waves his flip flops above his head, just like Louis did moments earlier, and lets out a triumphant cry.

But the cry turns into a startled shriek as Louis smirks and barrels towards him, showing no signs of stopping.

In the moment before the disaster strikes, its almost like time slows down. The water is warm where it ebbs and flows around his legs. The sand is soft underfoot, but it also scratches gently as he walks. Harry has greatly underestimated the lengths Louis would go to win a simple game of it.

He has also greatly underestimated how quickly he could fall for someone, especially if that someone is Louis.

When Louis suddenly bursts into the sea, sending up a splash in his wake, time speeds up again. He tackles Harry to the ground and they both roll about in the water, spluttering and laughing.

Finally, they just sit still in the ocean, grinning at each other. The only sounds in the world are the wail of seagulls and the lapse of the waves around them. Harry licks his lips, suddenly conscious of the way the saltwater is drying, tacky against his skin. Louis’ eyes flit down to track the movement, and Harry is enraptured by how _pretty_ his eyelashes are.

It hits him like a punch to the gut, then, how close they’re sitting to each other. It would be so, _so_ _easy_ to kiss him, right here in the middle of the ocean. It’s like a tug in his stomach, pulling him urgently to lean forward and taste the sting of salt, to brush the dampness away from his cheekbone with his thumb, to swallow his sweet smile with his own. It’s so quiet out here, but the silence between them is so loud.

“I want to cook you dinner.”

Harry blinks up at him, to find his eyes smiling back at him, soft and amused.

“Okay.”

He makes to stand up out the water, before he freezes.

“What is it?” Louis asks, a concerned hand already hooked around his shin like an anchor.

Harry gestures helplessly to the expanse of the sea.

“Niall’s flip flops” He sighs, body slumping dejectedly.

Louis’ bark of laughter has him smiling again in no time.

They trail back up the path to Louis’ flat, wet clothes clinging to them uncomfortably but starting to dry up slowly in the heat of the sun. Louis whines all the way there about his jeans _(“They’re constricting me, Harry! I feel like I’m getting digested by a pair of snakes!”_ ) but he gets no sympathy as Harry smartly points out that he would be fine if he hadn’t insisted on drowning him. Louis tells him not to be so dramatic. Harry reminds Louis which out of the two of them is studying drama.

When they finally make it into Louis’ kitchen, Harry is tossed a bundle of Niall’s old clothes and follows the direction of Louis’ pointed finger to the bathroom to get changed. Louis has given him a worn pair of grey trackies and a stretched out white t-shirt with the Aberystwyth logo in the corner.

He wrings out his damp hair in the sink and huffs at the lack of head towels in the bathroom, shaking his head like a dog before heading back out the hall to find Louis. He’s changed into a soft shirt and trackies too and is standing in the middle of the kitchen with his hands on his hips, staring at the open fridge with a puzzled look on his face.

“You alright?” Louis turns at Harry’s voice and tucks his arms around his middle, shrinking himself.

“I know I said I would cook for you but…” He trails off, grinning a little sheepishly.

“But?” Harry prompts.

“I can’t exactly… cook.”

Harry laughs.

“Hey! Don’t laugh at me! I even bought cookbooks and everything at the beginning of this summer. Proper Jamie Oliver and Nigella and all that, but,” He shrugs, “Everything I touch burns.”

“Well it’s lucky you have me.” Harry smiles. “I love cooking, and I was getting my shopping before you so graciously dropped by, so I already have everything in your fridge.”

Louis’ returning smile is blinding.

Harry makes them a simple and hearty carbonara, because while he was doing shopping earlier, he didn’t feel like grabbing any particularly interesting ingredients. A part of him feels embarrassed and the fairly bland dish, but Louis simply beams at him and jokes that it’s really just a treat to be eating something that’s not charred or straight out of a takeaway tub.

They eat around the dining table, exchanging titbits about their lives – Harry’s music and Louis’ studying. Harry learns that while Louis hasn’t played Puck, he appreciates the comparison, lighting up when Harry points it out, but that he did play Peter Pan in his year six play. Harry agrees with him when he comments that both characters have the same chaotic energy. Harry tells him about the rift he’s felt between his music and his inspiration since he moved out of his mum’s place, how stifled he felt living so close to Manchester whilst also feeling like just a spec of dust at the edge of it’s fast pace. Louis admits that’s how he felt having lived in Doncaster – though it’s really only a large town, nowhere near the scale of Manchester – he feels so much more in touch with the mindsets of those in Aberystwyth and Newbridge.

“I’ve always been a family man I guess, so I wanted to go somewhere where the people felt like family. Big city universities just seemed too closed off for me. I can’t imagine living in massive halls. My mate Stan, from back in Doncaster, he went to Edinburgh, right, and he said that the guy in the room next to him didn’t say a word to him the whole of first year.” He leans back into the sofa they’ve migrated too and runs his hand through his fringe. “Imagine that. Brutal.”

“I can tell.” At Louis’ quirked eyebrow, he clarifies. “That you’re a family man. You’re very caring and you have like, this energy,” He flushes, knowing that he’s rambling. “You’re a very warm person, if that makes sense? I find you comforting to be around. I know this is a kind of a weird thing to say, like we barely know each other but your presence is so welcoming.” Harry feels the tips of his ears warming and peers down at the ground, suddenly finding it hard to meet his eyes. “I feel safe around you.” He finishes dumbly.

In his periphery, he sees Louis’ small hand hover in the air between them before it settles heavy and hot on Harry’s thigh.

“Harry.” He whispers.

“Sorry if that’s weird.” He mumbles, still not ready to face Louis’ gaze, skin electric where his thumb is rubbing absently.

“Harry.” He repeats again, disbelieving.

Harry looks up from the floor and chances a glance at Louis.

He’s staring at him imploringly, eyes flickering all over Harry’s face like there’s too much of him to take in. His other hand is suddenly tucking Harry’s hair behind his ears gently, stroking softly at the skin on the nape of his neck as he cards through it.

“God.” He laughs out, voice a little wet. “You’re so – how are you so _sweet_ , Harry? You’re so _kind_ , how are you real?”

“Yeah?” He asks searchingly, still unsure.

“Yes.” Louis smiles at him fondly. “Yes, _god_.”

“Do you think Niall will mind if I borrow his guitar?”

Louis shakes his head slowly, brows knitting up in confusion.

“I’ve written lots of songs since I’ve come down here. I want to play you one.” Louis must suspect that this is Harry’s way of breaking the tension of the moment they were having, and he visibly swallows his disappointment before plastering on a smile and jokingly asking “What? Is it about me?”

Harry blushes deeply and shrugs so heavily it feels like his head is burrowing into his shoulders. Louis seems to sense the weight of what Harry’s about to play him and squeezes his thigh once reassuringly before gesturing towards Niall’s acoustic.

“He won’t mind. I’d love to hear it.” So Harry goes to pick it up and settles back next to Louis who is watching him with a soft smile on his face.

He spends a quick moment tuning the strings, and then he’s off.

His fingers dance over the fretboard, and he fills the flat with the first melody he wrote in Wales. He closes his eyes as he plays, sinking into it. It’s refreshing, playing a song just for the person it was about. All the little nuances he noticed about Louis from their first meeting are in the way picks the strings – a note for his quick wit, a chord for his sarcasm. After a minute of this gentle intro he starts crooning out lyrics. They’re all unmistakably about Louis, the ones he scrawled down last night after their climb up the mountain. His deep voice feels like a stranger between them, singing shyly about crescent moons and electricity. He’s always thought that his voice is like a foreigner inside his chest; too big for his body, even if Louis likes to tease him about his gangly limbs. But when he’s singing about Louis, whose energy bursts out of the seams of his slight and delicate body, it feels fitting.

He comes to a finish, opening his eyes to meet Louis’.

“Harry.” He says again, voice cracking, desperate.

“That seems to be your favourite word today.” Harry jokes, suddenly self-conscious under the intensity of Louis’ focus. It makes him want to squirm, a little like he’s an insect on a glass slide under a microscope.

“It’s my favourite word every day.” He lifts the guitar off from where it’s resting on Harry’s lap and puts it on the floor, before lifting a hand to touch his jaw. “Harry.” He shuffles towards him on the sofa. “Harry, Harry, Harry.”

“It doesn’t sound like a word anymore.” Harry replies distractedly, eyes caught on the pink of Louis’ lips. It feels like they’re back in the ocean, even though they’re both bone dry.

“It’s more than a word.” Louis smiles, and tugs Harry forward.

The first press of their lips is shy, and Harry can feel Louis’ smile widening so much that he can’t kiss him properly anymore, so he pulls back and peppers his pout with little kisses until he huffs and brings him close again. The second time around is still sweet, but Harry feels Louis’ hands travel up to play with his hair and he hastily curves his own across Louis’ back, stroking lazily up and down. He can taste a hint of the creamy sauce from their pasta and the domesticity of it makes something curl up warm in his belly. Louis hums into the kiss and the buzz of it reminds Harry of why he thinks Louis’ electric, why he thinks he’s magnetic. Harry feels like he’s searching for something in the pink of Louis’ mouth, in amongst the part of his smile and the salt from the seawater, still stubbornly clinging to the corner of his mouth.

Eventually Harry pulls himself away and tucks himself into the crook of Louis’ shoulder, inhaling.

“Why are you so _pretty_?” He groans, voice slightly muffled by Louis’ shirt, and Louis laughs, pressing a kiss into his hair.

“I could say the same about you, love.” Harry preens at the pet name and kisses the juncture of his throat in approval.

He pulls back for a moment where he sits in Louis’ lap and rests his hands on Louis’ shoulder. As he shifts, Louis’ hands find solace on Harry’s hips like they’re in tandem.

“I’m glad I met you, Louis.” Louis lifts one of Harry’s hands to his mouth and presses his lips to it, reverent.

“I don’t like Manchester.” He says as if it means something.

“Okay.” Louis’ voice is fond, like it does.

Later, Harry sends a quick text to Liam, peering at his phone screen over where Louis is sleeping on his chest.

_His name is Louis._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Kudos and comments are always appreciated <3


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